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Some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten weren’t concocted in 5-star restaurants. In fact, they were created by people who’ve never even heard of a Michelin star. These cooks didn’t graduate from Le Cordon Bleu, the Culinary Institute of America, or the Academy of *Stu Cazze. The best meals I’ve ever eaten were made by humble folks who’d probably clothesline whoever invented the decorative rosemary sprig. I’m talking about Mom, *Nonna, *Zia, Cugi…
 
It’s from that long line of bad-ass, home-schooled, fierce-female cooks that I learned to dish it out. And I ain’t just talkin’ food. See, in my family, the kitchen was where it all went down. It’s where we laughed, confessed, brawled, celebrated, and mourned. We practically lived in the kitchen, and that’s definitely where we came alive. Food just set the stage … until it was time to eat, then “Shaddup and pass da Parmigiano,” but you get the picture.
 
And that’s how we roll on Bitchin’ Kitchen. We’re loud, we’re messy, and we’ve got a meal for every occasion. From “Breakup Brunches” to “Dysfunctional Family Pizza Night,” we’re not afraid to lay it all on the table, laugh in the face of whatever life serves up, and stuff our gullets while we’re at it. As fresh as this concept may seem, it’s actually pretty old school. And I guess that’s why we have the most Bitchin’ community in the lifestyle space. Because ultimately, we’re like family (or the family you never wished you had) — breaking bread, breaking balls, and breaking all the rules.
 
People always ask me where I got the idea for a “crazy comedy-cooking show.” Easy: I grew up in a crazy comedy-cooking show. What I wonder is where people got the idea that the kitchen was some kinda sterile space with about as much personality as a stainless countertop? *Boh. I don’t know about you, but the kitchens I grew up in were beautifully chaotic, and that’s exactly how I like it.
 
So it’s time to take back the kitchen, Ladies and Ginos. Get your hands dirty. Make a mess. Trade that cardigan for some stilettos, and have some freakin’ fun! Because if you ain’t having fun, you ain’t gonna cook. And if you ain’t cookin’, a lot more than your stomach can go hungry. As the old Italian saying goes: “The family that eats together, digests together.” What? I told you the saying was old, not deep.
 
The Bitchin’ Kitchen Code
 
FEARLESSNESS Every time I get a new knife or grater or use any sharp metal kitchen contraption for the first time, I get cut. So will you. Be prepared to get spritzed with hot oil, scalded with boiling water, suffer second-degree burns from cast-iron pans … but don’t fret, pretty soon you won’t feel it anymore and your tough hands will become a badge of honor … or a gnarled mess, whatever.
 
PATIENCE Take the time to julienne the peppers, cube the potatoes, mince the garlic, make a freakin’ basil chiffonade. Straight guys are especially bad at this, “A potato is a potato, just rub it on your T-shirt, peel off a few strands of skin and slap it in the pan, right?” Wrong. All these little prep steps are super important: not only do they affect cook-time, but ingredients are passive-aggressive: If you don’t pay attention to them, they’ll get you back when dinner is served. Hisss.
 
CREATIVITY In the culinary world nothing is written in stone. If a recipe calls for a big pinch of sugar, you may like two or none at all. So always taste as you go, involve yourself with the different layers of flavor, make adjustments, make it yours. Unless you have really bad taste — then just follow the directions.
 
RESPECT To make a good meal, you need good ingredients. I buy all organic, but there are a few ingredients that REALLY should be organic: meat and dairy. I know, organic meat is expensive, but it’s supposed to be. It’s easy to forget, but that juicy steak used to be a live animal that needed food, shelter, and water itself — for years — before blossoming into dinner. In life, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. If you’re buying cheap meat, you’re getting a lot more than you bargained for: antibiotics, growth hormones, a daughter getting her period before the age of ten thanks to all of the above … Same goes with dairy. Anyways, we all know that cutting down on meat and dairy is healthy. So long story longer: buy better meat, and eat less of it. I’d rather own two pairs of D&G heels than twenty pairs of pleather monstrocities.
 
LOVE Cheesy as it may sound, it’s true. The more you watch a sauce, fuss, and carefully stir, the better it tastes. (Psst. If anyone asks, I didn’t tell you this.)
 
Nadia G’s Accent
 
Many have wondered where my accent comes from: New Jersey? Brooklyn? Russia, perhaps? While some asked questions, others sent hate mail. They couldn’t place my accent, and that made them mad. These flustered knights of knowledge demanded “the truth” and would not rest until my accent was “debunked”… or their meds kicked in. So here’s the 411:
 
My parents emigrated from Italy to Montreal, Quebec, in the 1950s. My father came from Guglionesi, Campobasso, where they speak a dialect of ‘Mulise.’ My mom hails from Torrice, a small town in Frosinone, where they speak their own dialect of “Ciociaro.”
 
Fast forward a coupla decades, and I was born in Montreal, Quebec, a French-Canadian city. But make no mistake, the French spoken in Montreal is a far cry from the guttural French you’ll hear in France. “Quebecois” is to European French what the Southern Drawl is to British English. Onwards.
 
When I was little, I was raised speaking Italian. I then went to English school, but took quite a few bilingual courses (that’s how we roll in Mtl). And to this day, I speak three languages: English, French, and Italian. I also pretend to speak Spanish, when in fact I’m speaking Italian.
 
Now, here’s the kicker: I grew up in St. Leonard, an Italian neighborhood where folks don’t just have a peculiar Italian-Montreal accent, they created a whole freakin’ language, *bro! A dialect which is colorful and cringe-worthy. St. Leonard is a town where backyards aren’t gardens, they’re tomato factories. It’s a town where Civics are the vehicle of choice, and “Rhythm Is a Dancer” blasts through the souped-up speakers (…which are worth more than the car). It’s a town where people named Joe, Mary, Tina, and Gino eat cutlet “sangwiches” and live with their parents until they’re 40. Where the boys are clean shaven, and in certain cases I wish we could say the same for the girls.
 
Anyways, the point is, when I speak you’ll hear glimmers of these influences: French, Italian, “St. Leonard-ese,” depending on how flustered I am. And sometimes, if you listen really closely, you can also hear dolphins cry. It’s a beautiful thing.